“You don’t believe me,” she said, in the same blunt tone she’d used before. But then she shrugged. “I’ll let you talk to him, but you can’t say a word about why you’re here. I won’t have you upsetting him.”

“I promise.”

“Come in, then.” She headed upstairs, Avi and Tischler following. The man was sitting in a chair in front of a television set. Avi thought he’d caught the woman in a lie, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t watching the TV. Rather, he was just listening to it. A talk show in Hebrew was on. The interviewer, a young woman, was asking her guests about their first sexual experiences. The man was listening intently. In the corner of the room, a white cane leaned against a wall.

“Abba,” said the woman, “I’d like you to meet two people. They’re just passing through town. Old friends of mine.”

The man rose slowly, painfully, to his feet. As soon as he was standing, Avi saw his eyes. They were completely clouded over. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you,” said Avi, taking the man’s gnarled hand. “A great pleasure.”

“Your accent — you’re American?”

“Yes.”

“What brings you to Israel?” asked the man, his voice low.

“Just the sights,” said Avi. “You know — the history.”

“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “We’ve got lots of that.”

The phone in Pierre’s lab rang. He hobbled over to answer it. “Hello?”

“Pierre?”

“Hi, Avi. What’s the score?”

“Forces of good, zero. Forces of evil, two.”

“No IDs?”

“Not yet. The second guy is blind. Complications of diabetes, his daughter said.”

Pierre snorted.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s not funny, really. Just ironic. The first guy had Alzheimer’s and this one has diabetes. Those are both genetically related. As Danielson, Marchenko discriminates against people who have those same diseases, and now those diseases are saving him.”

“Yeah,” said Avi. “Well, let’s hope things go better. We’ve only got two shots left.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Right. Bye.”

Pierre went back to the light table, hunching over the two autorads. He kept at it for hours, but when he was done, he leaned back and nodded to himself in satisfaction. It was exactly what he’d expected.

When Avi got back to the States, Pierre would have one hell of a surprise for him.

Avi and Detective Tischler drove down to Jerusalem for their next attempt. All the buildings were made of stone — there was an ordinance that required it; at sunset, the light reflecting from the stone transformed Jerusalem into the fabled City of Gold. They found the ancient house they were looking for and knocked on the door. After a few moments a young man, perhaps thirteen years old, appeared, wearing a yarmulke and a

Melrose Place T-shirt. Avi shook his head slightly. He was always surprised at how pervasive American pop culture was no matter where he traveled.

“Yes?” said the boy in Hebrew.

Avi smiled. “Shalom,” he said. He knew his Hebrew was rough, but he’d told Tischler that he wanted to do all the talking. He couldn’t risk the Israeli police officer saying anything that might contaminate the identification. “My name is Avi Meyer. I’m looking for Shlomo Malamud.”

“He’s my zayde,” said the boy. But then his eyes immediately narrowed.

“What do you want?”

“Just to speak to him, just for a moment.”

“About what?”

Avi sighed. “I’m an American—”

“No shit,” said the boy, making it clear that this had been obvious from the first syllable Avi had uttered.

“—and this man is an Israeli police officer. Show him,” said Avi, turning to Tischler. Tischler pulled out his ID and held it up for the boy to see.

The boy shook his head. “My zayde is very old,” he said, “and almost never leaves the house. He hasn’t done anything.”

“We know that. We just need to talk to him for a moment.”

“Maybe you should come back when my father is home,” said the boy.

“When will that be?”

“Friday, for Shabbat. He’s on business right now, in Haifa.”

“What we want will only take a moment.” Through the doorway, Avi could see that an ancient man had appeared, oblivious of their presence, hunched over, shuffling toward the kitchen.

“Is that him?” asked Avi.

The boy didn’t have to look back. “He’s very old,” he said.

“Shlomo Malamud!” shouted Avi.

The man slowly turned around, a look of surprise on his deeply wrinkled, sun-battered face.

“Mar Malamud!” Avi shouted again. The man began to shuffle toward them.

“It’s all right,” said the boy, trying to stop his grandfather from coming nearer. “I’m taking care of everything.”

“Mar Malamud,” said Avi over the boy. “I’ve come a long way to ask you just one question, sir. I need you to look at some photographs and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

The man was moving slowly toward them, but the boy was still blocking the entrance with his body. “You’re wasting your time,” said the boy. “He’s blind.”

Avi felt his heart sinking. Not again! Damn it, why hadn’t he thought to check on this before leaving the States? How was he going to explain this one to his boss? “Yes, sir, that’s right, I spent three thousand dollars flying halfway across the world to show some pictures to a bunch of blind old men.”

The old fellow was still working his way down the corridor. “I — I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Avi said, turning to go.

“What do you two want?” asked Malamud, his voice as dry as the desert.

“Nothing,” said Avi, and then, almost at once, thinking for a second that his Hebrew had failed him, “Did you say ‘you two?” Tischler hadn’t uttered a word since they’d arrived.

“Speak up, young man. I can hardly hear you.”

Avi wheeled on the teenager. “Is he blind, or isn’t he?”

“ ‘Course he is,” said the boy. “Well, legally blind.”

“Mr. Malamud, how much vision do you have left?”

“Not much.”

“If I show you a series of photographs, could you tell them apart?”

“Maybe.”

“Can we come in?”

The old man thought for a long time. “I guess,” he said at last.

The teenager, looking quite miffed at having had an end run done around him, reluctantly moved aside. Avi and Tischler followed Malamud as he moved at a snail’s pace down to the kitchen. He found a chair — whether he could actually see it, or simply knew where it would be, Avi couldn’t tell. After he’d sat down, he waved for Avi and Tischler to do the same. Avi opened up his briefcase and took out a small cassette recorder, thumbed it on, then placed it on the table near Malamud. He then took out the photo spread, unfolding it at its central masking-tape hinge and placing it in front of Malamud. The spread consisted of three rows of eight photos, twenty-four in all.

“These are modern pictures,” said Avi. “They all show men in their eighties or nineties. But we’re trying to identify someone you might have known in your youth — someone you would have known in the early 1940s.”

The old man looked up, his eyes full of hope. “You’ve found Saul?”

Avi looked at the teenager. “Who is Saul?”

“His brother,” said the boy. “He disappeared in the war. My grandfather was taken to Treblinka; Saul was taken to Chelm.”

“I’ve been looking for him ever since,” said Malamud. “And now you’ve found him!”

Avi knew this was ideal: if Malamud thought he was looking for someone else and still spotted Ivan Grozny, the identification would be very hard to discredit in court. But Avi couldn’t bear to use the man like that. “No,” he said. “No, I’m so sorry, but this has nothing to do with your brother.”

The man’s face visibly sank. “Then what?”

“If you can just look at these pictures…”

Malamud took a moment to compose himself, then fumbled for a pair of glasses in his breast pocket. They had enormously thick lenses. He balanced them on his large, pitted nose, and peered at the pictures for a few moments. “Still can’t see them very well,” he said.